the smell of
subtle perfume
hard work
korean ginger
and gentle laundry softener
the nimble, boy hands
that heal the worked muscles
from long days and
tennis matches
the same hands that thread
through my thick, brown hair
as my eyes close to dream
my mom is
a one of a kind
her soul too young
and her mind too strong
her heart too colossal
for just any person
my mom is
a one of a kind
no title can fit her name
she stands with no cape
but a mighty spirit
beneath
her petite, gentle frame
she is the ocean tide
and the crashing wave
the sunshine of day
and the winds of night
my mom is quite special
in her own unique way
special to me
i simply cannot say
how caring
how loving
how patient
she is
to be with me
every step of
the way
i miss seeing her smooth, tan skin that glows during golden hour at the dinner table
i miss smelling her dolce gabbana light blue that she would spritz because i told her it was my favorite perfume of hers
i miss hearing her loud laugh when i say something funny or do something silly
i miss feeling her thin, bony fingers and her pointy, painted fingernails that always have a different design every week
i miss walking beside her when we go places and can’t help but roll my eyes when she lugs around her gigantic bag with all the essentials she insists are necessary, every woman should have—handkerchief, lotion, hand sanitizer, lotion, chapstick, and hair ties
i miss hearing her ask the waiter at every restaurant for extra napkins, extra cilantro, extra ginger, extra extra
i miss hearing her say “sahngah,” drawing out the “ahh” and the way no one else could give my korean name gentle power
i miss seeing the top of her red and dark brown streaked hair as i grow taller and taller than her
i miss my mother but i do not jump to hug her or hold her hand.
when she embraces me when i walk in the house or kisses my forehead in the morning before she goes to work, i squirm and shift away
i miss my mother but i do not reach for her when she’s right here.
i do not tell her thank you for working multiple hours a day as i played in the crib at the back of the dry cleaners
i do not say that i understand why she forced me to go to korean school
or how furious she would get when i wrote my name in red ink
why she held so tightly to superstitions that i thought were silly
i imagine the fervor i will have for my future children to understand their Korean culture as my mom desperately hoped to instill in me
i wish i could say umma, gosaenghaesseoyo, saranghaeyo
i miss my mother, but i do not reach for her when she’s right here.
